Erasure
by cryptictac
Summary: There are a lot of things in his life House wishes he could erase, but Wilson isn't one of them. HouseWilson. Explicit slash. Set post 'Not Cancer' 5x02 .


Sometimes, House thinks about all the things in his life he wishes he could erase.

Mistakes. Misfortunes. Misgivings. Things he knew he shouldn't have done at the time, and things he didn't realise he shouldn't have done until it was too late. Things he could've done. Things he _should've_ done. Coulda, whoulda, shoulda. Life, he thinks bitterly to himself as he absently rubs a pencil eraser against the edge of his desk, isn't measured by the number of breaths we take but by the number of mistakes we make. And this one has to be his biggest of all.

He sits at his desk, alone. The conference room is empty, as empty as the whiteboard has been for the last three weeks. Everything feels eerily silent, _too_ silent, the kind of silence that makes House aware of his own breathing and his own pulse. The kind of silence that taunts him at every opportunity that he's very much alive.

Unlike Amber.

He even imagines the silence reverberating from what used to be Wilson's office. Right across the balcony from his own office door; a single room stripped bare of all the memories that matter to him, all the importance of a friendship he's lost, all the significance of what it meant to have Wilson right there whenever House needed him. Erased. Gone. Lost. As though everything that _did_ matter between Wilson and himself doesn't even matter anymore. And to House, _everything_ matters. Even those times where they crossed the boundary of friendship into lovers, those times he and Wilson never spoke of, no matter how many times those boundaries were crossed - they matter, too. In some ways, those times matter most. House has never been the sort of person to give himself over to people so completely. Sex is sex, but not when it's more than sex. And he doesn't really know how much _more_ to it than sex there was between Wilson and himself because they never talked about it. But it's always been there, just beneath the subcutaneous layer of their relationship. Too deep to be seen by others, but not deep enough that they could ever deny it to each other. If anything, Wilson is as much a piece of him as his own flesh and blood is, and House honestly can't - doesn't want to - picture his life without that piece of him missing. He never asked for it to be that way between Wilson and himself. It simply is. Some things simply aren't meant to be explained or understood.

He stares down the shards of eraser left from the friction of rubbing it against his desk. Even erasers don't remove everything, he thinks to himself. Even after something has been erased, there is always an imprint left behind. A clue that something once used to be there, something that may have been important but no longer is. Maybe Wilson has the right to walk away from him, but House has the right to hold onto what matters. Even if Wilson doesn't want to.

Or maybe he does.

House sets the pencil down and brushes the eraser shards away to the floor. He stands, shrugs on his jacket and takes his cane, and grabs up his bag. No point in staying here, he decides, not today. Maybe he'll try one more time to see Wilson. He can only try, after all. He _has_ to.

There are a lot of things in his life House wishes he could erase, but Wilson isn't one of them.

* * *

It's pouring with rain by the time House arrives at Wilson's place.

_Wilson and Amber's place_, a little sneering voice reminds him as he dismounts from his bike. _She used to live here, too, you know_.

"Shut up," he mutters to himself as tugs off his helmet, wipes his soggy sleeve against his forehead to mop away the rain. He secures his bike and heads up the garden path, wondering if Lucas is watching right now. That thought makes him look around a little uneasily when he reaches the front door. He feels like he's doing something wrong, as though this is going to be yet another stupid move he's going to have to justify and reason away. Right now, his whole existence feels like an endless string of wrong moves, none of which he knows how to put right. He shakes off the unsettling feeling that maybe he's being watched and knocks on the door three times.

He waits. He knocks again. He knows Wilson is in; the car parked in the drive was impossible to miss.

He knocks again and just when he thinks he might have to resort to that old throwing stones at the window trick, he hears movement on the other side of the door. He stops, and listens closely over the sound of the rain tipping onto the ground.

"Wilson," he finally calls.

A pause. "I told you I'm not answering the door to you again," Wilson replies, his tone stiff and cold.

"You said 'next time'. How about we make this 'half-time' and you cut me some slack?"

Silence. And House can just picture the iciness on Wilson's face.

That was a stupid thing to say, he realises. "Come on, it was a joke," he relents, not really liking the urgency edging into his voice.

"Go away."

House rubs his sleeve of his forehead and face again before running a hand through his hair. "Can't you at least get me a towel? I'm soaked."

"I mean it, House."

"I'm not going away," House stubbornly replies, but even his attempt to sound unscathed belies him. He peers at the door almost pleadingly, willing Wilson to just open the door to him, just this one last time.

After ten minutes of waiting, he decides Wilson really isn't going to give in. He's probably not even standing at the door anymore. House tries to picture where Wilson might be. Maybe in the kitchen. Or maybe the bathroom. Probably standing with his an arm crossed over his chest while he rubs anxiously at his chin with his other hand. That's what House wants to believe, anyway - that he still matters enough to Wilson to make him worry, to make him fret, to make him wonder if he's doing the right thing by erasing House from his life.

He sighs and looks down, and then away. Resigned to defeat, he steps back and starts towards the door, his shoulders hunched and tight, and his stomach in knots. He'll be back, House thinks as he steps out into the rain. He simply refuses to think this is the end. A peal of thunder rolls in the distance and rain suddenly falls harder by the time he reaches his bike. His hair is drenched by the time he manages to get his helmet on, and the wind blowing in harsh gusts cuts right through his wet clothes to his skin like icy fingers. He wonders, as he pulls off from the curb, if Wilson is watching him leave.

He glances over his shoulder and he thinks he sees the curtain in the front window drop, as though Wilson was just peering through it. He's not sure, though.

He picks up speed as he rounds the corner and slaps the visor down over his face to shield out the onslaught of rain.

* * *

"You went and saw Wilson," Lucas informs him with that casual verging on nervous voice of his that's beginning to grate on House's nerves. What kind of private investigator sounds _nervous_?

House stops mid-swig of his beer and turns his head away from the television long enough to give Lucas an incredulous look. Once again, that uneasy feeling - of _knowing_ - that he was being watched erupts in him. "I thought I told you to stop private investigating a week ago."

"I know you did," Lucas replies without missing a beat.

House waits for an explanation. Predictably, he doesn't get it. "And?" he prompts.

"And what?" Lucas shrugs. "That's not the important question."

"What's the important question?"

Lucas points his beer at House. "The _important_ question is why you're sitting here with me, when yesterday you were trying to get Wilson to talk to you again."

"_You're_ sitting here with _me_," House corrects him impatiently. "_I_ invited you into my apartment. Means you're sitting with _me_, not the other way around."

Lucas shrugs again. "I'm just here to claim my final payment," he says easily. "4000. You're the one who invited me in. Means I'm going to have to bump the final fee up a grand. You still haven't paid me."

"You _charge_ people for being their friend?"

"I'm a private investigator. I'm nobody's friend."

"You're certainly not mine," House agrees, not really bothered that he has to shell out a further grand, but disgusted at being used at the same time. "Anyway, why are you're charging me an extra grand just for sitting here?"

"Detention fee," Lucas replies after taking a sip of his beer. "I have other jobs I could be doing right now. Got to earn the bucks on lost time somewhere. And, while I'm at it, friendship advice fees, seeing that's all you're using me for now. Bundled together, my services of being your shoulder to lean on _and_ your private eye come to a grand total of five grand."

"How compassionate of you," House remarks dryly.

"All part of the job," Lucas continues matter-of-factly, "Anyway, actions speak louder than words. If I wasn't your friend, you wouldn't be treating me like I'm one." He motions to his beer, then to the television. "Beer. TV. You letting me kick my feet up on your coffee table. All the hallmarks of what you let Wilson get away with in your company. Not something you'd allow just anybody to do. The only reason I'm not 'just anybody' is because I'm the last connection you have with Wilson. Without me, your connection with him would be erased."

Again, House halts with his beer midway to his mouth. He stares at the TV, willing Lucas' words to rebound off his ears because he doesn't like how close to home they hit, but knowing deep down that Lucas is right. He _is_ the only connection he has left to Wilson. And he can't keep forking out countless thousands to keep Lucas around forever. Either he has to make sure he hasn't been erased from Wilson's life, that their friendship hasn't ceased to exist, or he runs the risk of never knowing when Lucas finally moves on.

"Is it?" he asks quietly after a long pause.

Lucas looks askance at him. "Is it what? Erased?" He shifts on the couch and turns his attention back to the television. "What do you think?"

"If I know the answer to that, then why have I been paying you thousands of dollars to do the job of finding out yourself?" House retorts.

"Because," Lucas says, as though his answer is the most simple answer in the whole world. "You already knew the answer. You're only paying me to _confirm_ your answer. Same as what half of all people who hire me want. We've been over that little detail already."

"I thought there were three types."

"My math is bad."

"And yet you're a private investigator? Thought the whole P.I. thing was about putting two and two together."

Lucas looks at him, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I don't actually have to tell you the truth about anything about me. It's not me we're investigating."

"Wow. Can hardly call you a friend if you're only going to lie to me."

"You're paying me five grand. I can afford to tell you anything I want. It's not me that's losing anything."

"If that's the case, how can I trust that anything you say is reliable?"

Lucas looks at House again. "Because you wouldn't be keeping me on retainer if that's what you really thought."

House stares at him until the show they're watching goes to ad break, then looks back to the TV. "Just so there's no confusion, you're _not_ my friend."

"I know," Lucas says again. "I'm not Wilson."

* * *

"So, have you talked to Wilson?" Cuddy asks from the doorway of House's office. "At _all_?"

House stares out the window, his chair facing away from her while he twiddles his pencil eraser between his fingers. He'd heard her come in but hadn't addressed her presence, even when she stood there waiting to be acknowledged. It had been two weeks since he last saw Wilson, since he was last at Wilson's home. He doesn't want to think about Wilson. Maybe erasing him and everything that matters between them _is_ for the best. House doesn't think he has much other choice.

"You going to answer me?"

He turns his head and looks at Cuddy. "You going to leave?"

"Not until you answer me."

"You're going to be standing there a long time, then," he replies dismissively, turning back to the window. "Anyway, why does it matter to you? He doesn't work here anymore. He's not your responsibility."

"_You're_ my responsibility. Professionally. Being his friend is my responsibility. I'm allowed to care about both."

"Waste of time!" House calls out impatiently, trying to drown her out.

He hears Cuddy sigh, then her footsteps approaching his desk briskly. She stops just short of his desk. "And sitting around pining isn't?" she asks. Her tone isn't confrontational, House notices.

He glances up at her. "I'm not pining."

Cuddy ignores him. "Like a dog who's lost his master."

"You're comparing me to a dog now?"

"There are worse things you've compared _me_ to."

"Yeah, but you're _you_. You're evil. You're supposed to be compared to bad things. Like Cruella DeVil. Or that wicked witch from _Sleeping Beauty_."

Cuddy fixes him with a flat, impatient look.

House turns away again and returns to twiddling the pencil between his fingers. "I'm not pining."

"You miss him."

"Do not," he replies, sounding offended, even though Cuddy couldn't be further from the truth.

Cuddy doesn't seem to buy it. "It's okay to miss him, House. Just like it's okay for people to care about you. Contrary to what you believe, having emotions isn't actually a bad thing."

"Yeah, well that's where you're getting it wrong," he retorts, facing back to her again. "I'm me. I cleverly don't have any emotions."

"You could try and convince me all you want that you're a sick, sadistic sociopath, but you can't fool me. I know you better than that and you know it."

"That's your problem, not mine."

She braces a hand on her hip. "I'm all you have left right now, and you want to push me away, too?"

"I didn't _push_ Wilson away. His girlfriend died. He's for some reason angry at me about that."

"Oh, there are a whole range of reasons Wilson has a right to be angry at you about," Cuddy replies sharply. "The way you treated him, the way you took advantage of his friendship, the way you stomped all over him, even when he was trying to look out for you. Everything that happened with Tritter. In all honesty, the guy had a right to walk away from you, House. The question is, what have you done about it?"

"There's nothing I _can_ do about it," he fires back. He sits up and swivels his chair around to Cuddy to stare her hard in the eyes. "You think this is how I _wanted_ things to end? That I wanted it to end at all?"

Cuddy presses her lips into a thin line, a look crossing her face that resembles something between anguish and sorrow. "Have you told him this?" she asks, her tone gentler.

House stares at her, right into her eyes, before he sits back and turns his chair away from her. He doesn't know how to fix this with Wilson, and he doesn't want to talk about what he can't fix. He doesn't like having answers. He doesn't like accepting answers he can't face. He doesn't _want_ to accept that all these years of friendship with Wilson no longer mean anything. "Think I haven't tried?"

"Maybe you haven't tried hard enough," Cuddy replies. "God knows you owe it to him."

House thinks about that for a moment, a frown creasing his brow, but when he turns back to Cuddy to respond she's already out the door.

* * *

House lies awake for hours.

It's raining again. He could blame his sleeplessness on the sound of the rain trickling and gurgling down the drainpipes, and the way it's beating against the window, but that's not the reason he can't sleep. Truth be told, he hasn't slept properly since the bus crash. And when he does sleep, he dreams in vivid colour, of catastrophes and panic and things he can't escape --

_seeing the garbage truck approaching, the headlamps, Amber's face as still as a moment frozen in time, his life flashing before his eyes, the explosion of metal against metal and shrapnel of glass shattering all around him, seeing her reaching out to him and hearing her scream, trying so hard to reach her, to hold on, to keep her safe and keep her close, her hand slipping out of his, darkness, so much darkness, then light, then darkness, then light again, like a slow strobe light, red, darkness, light, red, reaching out to Amber, she tells him she's cold, "stay with me", and then she's gone_

-- and then suddenly wakes up bathed in sweat, his pupils dilated with fear and his pulse pounding hard in his head. And then it all eases away, only to be replaced with guilt. Stomach-wrenching guilt, thick and ensnaring like quicksand, swallowing up his insides and eating him from the inside out until he feels hollow. He knows Amber's death wasn't his fault. He _knows_ that. Wilson doesn't even blame him for it... except House knows he does. He can see it in Wilson's eyes and hear in the coldness of his voice. And god only knows what else Wilson blames him for. _Everything_. Everything that made up what their friendship is. Was. Whatever that was. Even House isn't entirely sure what their friendship is about, what it means, where the boundaries are and what lines have been crossed. He doesn't know because boundaries and lines have been crossed and broken and scrambled up for so long that it's just the way everything _is_ between them.

_Was_. Maybe everything is in past tense now. Because maybe it's all erased.

He scrubs his face with this hands, hard and fierce, trying to scrub all his thoughts and his feelings away, then throws the covers off him. He sits up, scoots to the edge of the bed, sits there in darkness and listens to the rain for a while. He glances at the clock: 2.13AM. It feels like hours ago that he went to bed, even though it was actually only two, and it feels it's going to be an eternity before dawn breaks. He scrubs his face again, runs his hands through his hair, reaches for his cane, and starts towards the door. He goes to the toilet, he goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water, he stares at the phone long after the contents of the glass has been imbibed.

He thinks about ringing Wilson. He thinks about all the things he could say to him. All the things he _should_ say to him. All the things he _would_ say to him, if he had the chance. Or the courage. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. Maybe life isn't measured by the mistakes we make, but by the opportunities we deliberately miss, he thinks to himself. Because life only goes the path you let it. And life without Wilson isn't something House wants. But life without _him_ is what Wilson wants. Needs. Wilson doesn't need him anymore, he suddenly realises. Something about that makes his stomach twist up and his chest to tighten.

He looks away to the window, watching the heavy falling rain washing postmodern patterns down the glass. This isn't how he wants to spend the rest of his life, he decides after a short while of just staring, lost, at the window. For every period of loss, there has to be a grief period, and Wilson's not the only one who's lost someone. Who's grieving. Maybe Cuddy was right. Maybe he does owe it to Wilson. Or maybe he just has to try one last time before he misses the opportunity entirely. Before what they have - had - falls victim to erasure.

He returns to the kitchen for another glass of water, then goes to his bedroom to get dressed.

* * *

His watch reads 3.52AM when he knocks on Wilson's door.

The street is filled with an eerie dead calm. Everything smells fresh and crisp from the downpour of rain, like a coat of new paint, and the streetlights reflect off the wet roads. The silence of the neighbourhood reverberates through night, cut short only by the occasional bark from a dog in the distance. Everything is otherwise still, quiet, waiting. House faces away from the street and knocks on the door again, sharply. Sound comes from beyond the door, footsteps, followed by the lock being fumbled. Wilson opens the door just wide enough for light to spill in from the street and House sees him peering out blearily. Then he sees recognition snap Wilson out of grogginess.

House suddenly dashes a hand out and slams it on the door just as Wilson goes to slam it shut. The angle his palm catches against the hard surface sends a sharp metallic shockwave up his wrist and into his forearm. He doesn't care, though. He pushes the door back open, keeps pushing even as Wilson struggles to close it on him, until Wilson gives up.

Wilson stands back, hands held up in either surrender or anger - House can't quite tell. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?" House replies, his tone matching Wilson's.

Wilson throws his arms out. "To annoy me? To piss me off? To deliver a singing telegram?"

"If it's love ballads you're only interested in, I don't specialise in those. That's probably Cameron's department."

Wilson shakes his head firmly, bracing a hand against the door. "No," he says, pushing it closed. "I'm not doing this with you. It's over, House."

House slams his hand on the door again and forces it back open. "I don't want it to be over."

"Yeah, well you know what, House? It's too late to make amends. I'm not giving you any more chances." Wilson goes to close the door again.

"And I'm not going away," House replies, his teeth gritted as he shoves the door back open wide.

Everything suddenly turns into a struggle; Wilson fighting to push House out while House fight back to be let in. The wrestle with the door, House gripping the door handle tight enough that his knuckles pale out, his shoulder wedged firmly up against the wood while his other hand clutches at the doorframe for balance. Either Wilson is much stronger than House gave him credit for, or he's determined to keep House out, because House finds himself having to throw all his force against the door to stop it from slamming shut on his fingers. But finally, _finally_ he manages to launch all of his weight against it, overpowering Wilson enough to make him stumble backwards. House doesn't give him a chance to regain himself. He steps right in, one hand flinging the door closed while the other reaches out for Wilson and before Wilson can even say a word, House crushes their mouths together.

He's breathing hard from their struggle. His mouth slides rough and hard over Wilson's lips, trying to kiss him while trying to draw enough air into his lungs to breathe at the same time. He clutches Wilson's head in both hands, cane forgotten at his side, gripping onto Wilson like his life depends on it, because it does. He doesn't like how needy his frantic kisses are, but he _hates_ being erased from Wilson's life, as though Wilson doesn't need him, doesn't want him, doesn't love him. He feels Wilson's hands reach up to his chest, pushing while he grunts against House's mouth, and House just slides his fingers into Wilson's hair and grips it, tugs him closer to kiss him harder, to breathe him in, to taste him, determined not to let go until he has to.

"House," he hears Wilson gasp angrily, feels his breath hot against his lips and in his mouth.

"Shut up," he hisses back.

"_House_--"

"Just _shut up_."

He pushes harder into the kiss, blindly walking Wilson backwards in the dark hallway until the sudden hard thump of Wilson's head thudding against the wall echoes through the house. He hunches right in on him, desperate and determined and consuming, Wilson scrabbling at his shirt and jacket while House fetches for Wilson's tongue with his own. He twists his head one way, then the other, stubble scraping over Wilson's unshaven chin, his lips never leaving Wilson's, not even for a breath. Everything in the way they're fighting suddenly changes tempo, as though he's somehow broken past all of Wilson's defenses; the way Wilson's hands start gripping at him instead of pushing, fisting the material of his shirt, trying to draw House closer. House grunts, then gasps quietly, his eyes sliding shut while Wilson slides a hand through his hair. The kiss grows hungrier, needier, passionate, so passionate it's almost blinding, until House has no choice but to break away for air.

In the still darkness of the hallway, all House can hear is their shared ragged breathing and his heart racing in his chest. Wilson's hands are still in his hair, his own hands now cupping Wilson's face. He feels Wilson's working his jaw, licking his lips, feels Wilson's firm chest rising and falling rapidly against his own. House suddenly wants to know what Wilson's thinking. Is he thinking about Amber? Is he thinking about how much he hates House for what happened to her? Is he thinking about how right this is? Or how wrong this is? Or how they always somehow reach this point of passion when there doesn't seem to be any other choice?

"House," Wilson says, quietly and breathlessly this time.

"Shut up," House repeats again, a breathless murmur. He runs his thumb along Wilson's cheekbone. "Just shut up."

The next breath Wilson inhales, House thinks he's going to say something he doesn't want to hear. Instead, he feels Wilson's hand sliding from his hand and running down the side of his face in the most strangely gentle caress he's felt in as long as he can remember. He closes his eyes. He doesn't know what it means, what _any_ of this means. He's not sure Wilson even knows. But he leans back in and claims Wilson's mouth again and before he realises it, Wilson is shoving at House's jacket, trying to get it off him.

House obeys without fight, pulling away only briefly to shake the jacket from his arms. He flings it somewhere into the darkness, hears it land on something and then slide with a rasp of material to the floor along with the jingling of a few coins in his pocket. Wilson's fingers dig under his shirt as House returns to him, rumpling it up, while House tugs at the waistband of Wilson's pyjama pants. Their kisses go from almost careful, as though reacquainting with the familiarity of each other, to fierce and hard and animalistic by the time House's shirt is off. House still doesn't know what Wilson is really thinking, what's fuelling Wilson here, what's burning inside him. House can't help but be hugely self _aware_, however, of himself. Of his roughness. His masculinity. His broad muscles and shoulders, firm chest, unshaven face, everything about him that makes him everything Amber wasn't. He finds himself wondering, as Wilson cups the side of his face and tugs him deeper into another harsh kiss, what Amber was like in bed. Maybe she was a contradiction: all soft, womanly curves, cascading hair, smooth skin, but controlling and dominating and nothing Wilson was used to from a woman, and everything he needed.

He clamps his eyes shut. He doesn't want to think about Amber. He doesn't want to be wracked with guilt. Not now. Later, when he's not in the eye of the storm. Later, when he has no choice but to step back and assess what further damage he's done. But not now.

"Bed."

Wilson's single muttered command breaks House out of his thoughts. He takes a step back, his jeans tight against his erection, his head swimming with confusion, his heart feeling like it's almost in his mouth. He does as he's told, though. He limps, without his cane, through the apartment, feeling his way through the darkness with only the walls to guide him until he sees light from the bedroom. The bed is unmade, pillows askew and the sheets twisted as though Wilson has been tossing and turning for hours, and House suddenly thinks he can't do this. He can't. Not in Wilson's bed. Not in Wilson and _Amber's_ bed. Not like this. Not while everything is barely dangling by a single frayed thread. He's not here to make things worse. He's here to make amends. To make sure he's anything but erased from Wilson's life.

He stops in the doorway just as Wilson brushes past him. The soft, amber glow from the lamp gives the whole room a weird kind of altar effect, as though this whole room is a shrine to Amber without there even being a shred of evidence of her ever being here. Apart from a single photograph on Wilson's bedside of him and Amber, arm in arm, smiling in happier times. And why wouldn't this room be like a shrine to her? This is probably the one place Wilson has done most of his grieving for her.

His eyes land on Wilson once again and he watches him push his pants down, bending over to kick them off. He stands tall again, naked and half-hard, and faces House. The light shining behind him throws Wilson into an almost silhouette, outlining everything about his body while hiding all his flaws. House licks his lips and swallows. All at once he's reminded of all the times in the past where he's felt Wilson's body up against his, hard and solid and masculine, deep inside him, beautiful and vulnerable and exposed. "I can't do this," he says quietly.

Wilson raises his chin and squares his shoulders. House can tell by the way Wilson fidgets his hands at his sides that he doesn't know how to respond to this, because he hadn't expected to hear House say that. "Then why are you here?"

House swallows again. He shakes his head and looks away. "I thought..." He lifts a hand and runs his fingers across his lips, still tasting and feeling the afterburn of Wilson's mouth on his. "This isn't how I want to put things right."

"Who said you were putting anything right?"

House snaps his head up and stares at Wilson, bewildered. "But I thought..."

"That a kiss can solve everything? That sex will repair this?" Wilson motions between House and himself. "_Us_?"

He stares at Wilson for another few moments, then shakes his head. "No."

"Then what, House? Why are you here? _Tell_ me why you're here."

"Because..." He lifts a hand again and runs it along his jaw, up behind his ear. "I don't know how put this right. Doesn't matter what I do, it's not going to matter."

He can't really see Wilson's face because of the light throwing him into shadow, but the evenness of Wilson's voice is everything he needs to know. "You don't know that."

"Well, how can I?" he snaps back, suddenly frustrated. "I apologise, I admit I failed, I do everything I think you want to hear, and it turns you don't want to hear it."

"You think _words_ are going to erase what happened?" House hears a little waver in Wilson's voice, and he suddenly feels like ducking for cover. "You think a simple 'I'm sorry' is going to make everything better?"

"I don't _know_ how to make anything better," he replies sharply.

"That's because you've never had to try before. You've never had to face loss--"

"Oh, _what_ are you talking about?" House cuts in loudly. "You think what happened to my leg isn't a loss?"

"Not everything is about your leg, House," Wilson shouts. "Your leg is just a limb. Just a thing. Not a person or a relationship or someone you love."

"You think I don't know what it's like to lose someone?" House counters crisply.

"You didn't lose Stacy, House. You pushed her away."

"Doesn't matter _how_ I lost her. It's still loss. I still grieve over that."

Wilson gives a curt nod, followed by a derisive snort. "At least she's still alive."

House glares at Wilson, and Wilson glares right back at him. Part of him wants to suddenly attack him, punch him, wrestle and fight and shake all the grief out of Wilson so he can have his friend back, the Wilson he knew before Amber ever came into the picture. And another part of him wants to walk right up to him and kiss him, fuck him, make amends in the only way he knows how with Wilson. Amends that aren't really amends, just actions that erase other actions, something that binds them both so close that every bad thing lingering between them becomes obsolete.

He listens to neither of those parts. Instead, he turns and starts to walk away.

"That's right, House," Wilson calls after him in a tight, sneering tone. "Leave. Like you always do."

House stops and turns around. "I have the right to walk away from you," he replies.

He keeps his gaze trained on Wilson long enough to watch his reaction, before he turns and continues down the hall, feeling his way along to the wall to where his jacket and shirt are. He slips them on after fumbling around to find them, unlocks the door and steps outside.

The sky is breaking with the first rays of light, and it's started to rain again.

* * *

A week passes.

The rain still hasn't let up. and a coldness has begun to descend over Princeton; the first true promise of fall slowly merging into winter. House doesn't really know how he makes it through the week, much less even aware that he's existing through half of it. His mind is trapped elsewhere, stuck back in Wilson's room that night, with Wilson, the conversation replaying over and over in his mind, while Wilson's lips against his and Wilson's hands on him plague his memories. Maybe life isn't about missed opportunities, he thinks to himself as he stares down at his coffee Thirteen had made for him, but about taking wrong turns until you're completely lost. No way out. No clue how to get back on the right track. After all, there _is_ no way out of life, except for the route Amber took. And that's the same route everybody ultimately ends up at.

He sighs and sinks low in his desk chair, his hand covering his face. He's barely slept. His eyes feel like they're made of sandpaper, scratching and scraping every time he dares to even blink. His leg hurts. His body aches with tiredness and age. He feels old, worn out, torn and faded around the edges, like a discarded, dogeared book. When he finally looks back up, blinking on his computer screen catches the corner of his eyes. He turns to it and sees an email waiting for him.

From Wilson.

He opens it, uncertain he even wants to read it. But the message gives him no indication of what he should or shouldn't feel. It's just a simple, emotionless message: _We need to talk_.

House stares at it for a long while. Talk about what? What they'd already talked about? _Thought you said words can't erase what happened - unless of course you're just planning on communicating using Charades_, he thinks to reply. He makes himself minimise the window instead. Best not to say anything, not even when the best time to meet up with Wilson would be. If Wilson is the one who wants to talk, he'll come in his own time.

And House will be waiting for him when that times comes.

* * *

The last Saturday in October is when that time comes.

Princeton has slid further under the spell of the oncoming winter. Frost greets House every morning he steps outside of his apartment, along steam curling from his mouth with each exhale. Everything has become duller, greyer, as though the city is drawing its breath in, closing in on itself to hibernate for the next four or five months. House hates winter. He hates how it reminds him of death, the way the cold sweeps in and washes away every trace of colour and life. He especially doesn't know what this winter is going to bring. Bitterness. Loneliness. Isolation. Those are nothing new. But without Wilson, he's never been _truly_ alone. Just lonely. Because Wilson has never been any better at companionship for him than he's been for Wilson.

House gets up from the couch to go to the kitchen, to crack open his second bottle of beer for the night when he hears a knock on the door. He stops in the kitchen doorway and looks back. For the longest time, even when another bout of knocking sounds on the door, louder and more insistent, he debates even answering it. He's exhausted what reserves he has left to cope with the last however long it's been now without Wilson in his life, with the guilt of Amber's death lingering over him like a dark cloud. He's not sure he has the strength or the courage to even face this anymore.

But when a third round of knocking is announced on the door, followed by Wilson impatiently ordering, "House!" in a loud voice, House makes away across to it and peers through the peephole. Wilson is dressed in his thick coat, scarf loose around his neck and his head turned towards the front entrance as though he's considering escaping while he can. House braces his hand on the door handle and turns it, and slowly opens the door. He meets Wilson's gaze, and Wilson squares his shoulders and fixes House with an unreadable expression.

"Took you long enough," Wilson remarks in a brisk tone. "Wondered if you'd died in there."

"At least you wouldn't be a novice at grieving."

The words are out of his mouth before House even thinks about what he's saying. He instantly regrets it. Wilson's jaw tightens and he draws his lips into a thin, hard line, giving House a look so cold he feels like checking his extremities for frostbite. "You going to let me in?" Wilson asks testily.

Without a word, House steps back and holds the door open. He doesn't trust himself to speak. He's not sure he even trusts himself to ever speak again around Wilson. He closes the door while Wilson tugs his scarf from around his neck, and House watches him survey the apartment as though looking to see if anything has changed, if anything is different. Nothing ever changes in here, apart from the occasional added new guitar or book. His apartment has been exactly as it is for as long as he cares to remember. At least, as long as Stacy has no longer been a part of his life.

Wilson turns back to him, winding up the scarf slowly in his hand. For the first time in his life, House suddenly doesn't know what to say to him. There are a lot of things that go unspoken between them, but there are many other things spoken that only each other understands. Maybe that's why he's lost for words. Because Wilson knows him _too_ well, and Wilson probably doesn't want to know him at all anymore. Or maybe he's just lost for words because he really doesn't have the right words to make any of this right.

The silence stretches as Wilson takes off his coat and sets it over the back of the couch along with his scarf. House nervously drums his fingers on the handle of his cane all the while. He licks his lips and looks around, anxious for some kind of excuse to escape. At last when Wilson faces back to him, House is rubbing his fingers fretfully across his forehead. Realising Wilson is watching him, he drops his hand away and draws in a deep breath to try and calm himself.

"So," House says. He holds a hand out, a gesture to prompt Wilson into talking about what he wants to talk about. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?"

House motions with his hand again, clueless this time. "I don't know... Beer? Porn? Closure?"

"The first two you could offer me even with your eyes closed. You wouldn't even know the meaning of the last one."

"I could offer a few other things with my eyes closed, too, but I'm pretty sure that's not what you're here for."

"House," Wilson says sharply.

House obediently falls silent.

"I'm not here for any of those things," Wilson continues after a short pause of simply staring at House, scrutinising him. He looks around as he talks, seeming a little on edge. "I could get beer any time I wanted. Porn any time I wanted. It's not like I need you for those things. I don't need you for a lot of things."

House swallows.

"I don't need you to give me closure, either," Wilson says, turning back to House. "It's not up to you to decide that. Besides, I made closure the moment I walked away from you. That was it. Finito. Us gone. Finished. Erased." He spreads his hands wide, and then suddenly breaks out into a cynical smile. Followed by a cynical laugh. "And then you, being _you_, had to come along and undo..." He pauses, as though trying to find the right word, then sweeps his hands wide again. "_Everything_. Like you always do. You come marching back into my life, stomping over everything I've tried to put in place to make my life easier, to help me move on, like it's your God-given right. After everything you've done."

He still doesn't know what to say, if he should even say anything. He watches Wilson pace across the living room to the fireplace, then looks away when Wilson turns to face him once again.

"There are only two ways you operate, House: you either push people away until they can't stand the sight of you, or you suck out the nutrients of what makes and sustains a relationship until there's nothing left." He looks away and then down, his hands settled on his hips. "You know, I couldn't really see that until I had Amber. Because everything in my life was so... discontent. Empty. Lonely. She gave me everything I _needed_. I only had you because I didn't know any better. You made life interesting until I realised you don't make my life better." Wilson looks back up to him. "You do nothing to make my life better, House. You can't really give me anything I need. And yet..." He shakes his head and looks away again. "And yet, I don't know how to walk away from you."

House swallows again. "So, you're saying..." he prompts carefully.

"I'm saying that you're like an incurable disease. I don't want you in my life, but I don't have much choice."

"You have plenty of choice," House counters, confused. "Said yourself you have the right to walk away."

"Having the right and being able to are two completely different things."

House just stares at Wilson staring right back at him for what feels like an eternity. He doesn't know if this is a reconciliation, an agreement to let House back into his life, an acceptance of House's apology - he has no clue. He doesn't know what to do with any of this, either, because he doesn't _like_ knowing that he does nothing to better Wilson's life. He doesn't _like_ knowing that he's hardly more than a disease to Wilson. He doesn't want to accept that that's the way Wilson sees him. But if it means not being erased from Wilson's life, then it's the lesser of two evils.

Still. He feels like he's been cut to the very core. Pulled apart. That nerve right in the very centre of him that feels hurt the most towards people he loves exposed.

"Well, that was informative and helpful," House says dryly as he turns away from Wilson. "Guess you'll be on your way now you've said everything you needed to say."

Wilson doesn't move and House doesn't dare look at him. He busies himself with fetching the second bottle of beer he'd intended to get for himself, and feels a strange mixture of relief and hurt when hears the front door close and sees Wilson has gone. He thinks about phoning Lucas, using Wilson as an excuse to just have _somebody_ as company. But after he downs his second bottle of beer, then his third, the hurt starts to fade away and House decides to push Wilson to the back of his mind by breaking out the bourbon.

It starts to rain again by the time he sinks into a gentle, drunken sleep on the couch.

* * *

At first, House thinks he's having another nightmare.

Not about bus crashes and Amber and slow strobe lights, but of somebody in his room, someone out to get him, to kill him, to make him pay for every wrong mistake he's ever made. He jolts wide awake with panic, his mind cloudy with the remnants of alcohol, and he scrabbles at the bed covers while frantically pushing himself up. He feels a single bead of sweat dribble down his right temple and his neck is damp with perspiration. And right there, right in the darkness, somebody is there. Lurking. Hiding. Waiting. He doesn't know who, he doesn't know why, all he does know is he needs to get out of here. He thinks about reaching for the nearest blunt object, but finds himself stiffening in sudden fear when the figure approaches the bed.

"What the hell do you want?" he demands in a panicked voice.

The figure stops at his side of the bed and leans right over to him. And House finds himself staring right into Wilson's eyes. For a few seconds, he can't even make the connection between the faceless figure and why he's suddenly Wilson. But as Wilson raises a knee onto the bed with a quiet "shh", the mattress dipping under his weight, House starts to come to his senses. This isn't a dream. He's safe. He's okay. His heart rate instantly begins to slow at this reassurance and he feels his whole body go almost limp from the mere adrenalin rush caused by fear.

But then a million other questions start flooding into his mind. Questions about why Wilson is here and what does he want, and why has he gone and done something as creepy as letting himself into House's apartment in the middle of the night? And then he reminds himself that it's not the first time Wilson has done this. And then he realises, as Wilson climbs fully onto the bed, that he's naked.

"What are you doing here?" House asks, quietly and confused.

Wilson braces his hands either side of House's shoulders on the mattress and leans down just close enough that their foreheads brush against each other and their noses touch. "Shut up," he replies just as quietly.

Confusion makes House do as he's told. He can't see Wilson well through the darkness, but he stares up at him as Wilson brushes their foreheads together again. His senses suddenly become consumed with Wilson - his body warmth, his weight on the bed. His scent - masculine, vague remnants of cologne, mixed with the smell of rain and _Wilson_. House closes his eyes as Wilson runs his nose down the length of his cheek and then rests his face alongside House's. He doesn't know whether to make a move or lie still. He's almost afraid to move at all in case he does something he's not supposed to.

The mattress dips again as Wilson moves right over him, straddling his hips over the bed covers, and House tentatively moves his hands to Wilson's bare thighs. He runs his hands along the thin coarse of scratchy hair that covers them, opening his mouth when Wilson closes in for a kiss. It's soft, pliant, almost careful and tender, and by the time Wilson pulls back, House is hard.

He swallows. "I don't understand..." he begins in a murmur.

"Then don't," Wilson replies.

House opens his mouth to respond. Except he can't think of one. All he has are questions, and he doubts Wilson is going to answer a single one of them now. And maybe the answers to those questions don't matter right now. Maybe all that matters is Wilson. Because, really, that's all that's ever mattered. And after all these months of thinking he'd been erased from Wilson's life for good, he'd be a fool not to take this opportunity while it's here, while it's real and in the flesh and right within his grasp. He cranes his head off the pillow as Wilson meets him in another kiss, this time passionate and hungry and needy, broken by only short gasps for air. He strokes his hands along Wilson's thighs, to his ass and up his back, and only when House starts to pull him closer, wanting him nearer, does Wilson pull away.

He shifts up onto his knees and works the bed covers out from under him until House is exposed to him, and House wastes no time in kicking off his pyjama pants. He surges his hips up the moment Wilson settles back on him, fisting a hand into Wilson's hair and his other gripping Wilson's ass as they collide into another kiss. He arches his head back with a much needed breath as Wilson takes his kisses lower, down his throat to his collarbone, to his chest and across to his right nipple. As much as he wants this to go on forever, to wipe away everything that's been hurting so badly these past several months, he's not in the mood to be gentle or nice or to be cared for. It seems Wilson has the same idea.

House suddenly feels the sharp, painful sting of teeth clamping down onto his nipple. He arches his head back again, mouth twisted open in pain, and he grips Wilson's hair in his hands hard enough to almost pull it out. Wilson pulls away and quickly leans up to latch his mouth onto House's neck, sucking, biting, rolling his hips down in a slow, firm rhythm and House is powerless to do anything except meet him thrust for thrust. He grunts in surprise when the vicious kisses gets turned towards his mouth, breathing Wilson in breath for breathe, struggling with him, wrestling with him, groaning helplessly when Wilson reaches down between them and takes a hold of his penis.

He breaks the kiss with sudden gasp, feeling Wilson watching him as Wilson strokes him hard, fast, House's back arching and his muscles twitching as he's rapidly pulled close towards orgasm. The bed springs creak in rhythm with Wilson's strokes, the nearly empty glass of water on his nightstand suddenly clatters to the floor when House throws his arm out for something to grab onto, he's so consumed by Wilson he doesn't ever want this to stop, ever, ever, ever, more, please, just one more stroke--

Without warning, Wilson lets him go and House is so groggy with a need for release that he doesn't realise at first that Wilson has pushed himself up onto his haunches and started masturbating hard and fast. House props himself up onto his elbows, almost unable to see straight from how fast his blood is pumping through his body. He hears Wilson grunt quietly, hears him let out a sharp breath, followed by a low noise at the back of his throat. He quickly gathers enough of his mind together to reach across to his nightstand, and he yanks the top drawer open and fumbles around blindly until his fingers latch onto a condom packet. He tosses the lube onto the bed, too, and he's barely got the drawer closed again when Wilson snatches the condom up.

He hears the packaging crinkling and tearing, followed by Wilson ordering him quietly, "Roll over." House does as he's told, struggling onto his stomach, rubbing himself on the mattress with need, and he turns his head to one side on the pillow and listens to everything Wilson is doing. He reaches an arm back for Wilson, wanting Wilson on him, in him, _now_, and his hand brushes against Wilson's elbow just as he feels cold, slick lube being rubbed hastily between his asscheeks. He tenses up, hissing quietly in surprise, and hears the the bottle being clicked shut and tossed onto the bed. The moment Wilson moves over him, House hooks his hand up behind Wilson's neck and pulls him close. So close, they're breathing each other's air, corners of their lips almost touching, Wilson's chin digging into House's shoulder while he pries House's ass aside. House squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth at the first blunt press of Wilson's penis against him. He breathes through each slow thrust, grunting each time it hurts and each time it sends pleasure rippling through his body, and all the while he keeps a hold on the back of Wilson's neck. This is just how he likes it - rough, painful, unforgiving. He turns his face into the pillow and smothers his groans the deeper Wilson goes, letting Wilson's neck go to slap his hand on the mattress. He fists the sheet and twists it, calling out suddenly when Wilson starts to drive in and out of him.

At first, he feels frozen, too overwhelmed by pain and pleasure to make his body move or to make his mind unfog. It's just _Wilson, Wilson, god yes, harder, right there, stop, no don't stop, please, I need you_ until he starts meeting him thrust for thrust. He jerks back against him each time Wilson moves in hard, pushing him deeper and faster and fuller and, _oh god, just like that_. He turns his face the other way, breathing raggedly, and Wilson props himself up on his hands. The angle changes and everything seems to white out. Just white noise, fuzziness, everything being pushed to a point where House doesn't know if he's going to shout out angrily for Wilson to fuck him harder, _fuck you_, or whether he's going to break down and cry. He does neither. He grasps whatever he can hold onto for dear life, vaguely hearing his voice calling out in a string of staccato "_oh_" with each thrust until he suddenly plummets over the edge.  
The orgasm shakes him to his bones, the kind of orgasm that leaves him stripped raw and exposed, like everything about him is erased for the period of time where endorphins take over him. He feels Wilson still sliding in and out of him, faster, harder, grunting, gasping, but he barely has the capacity to feel or hear. His whole body is pushed hard into the mattress with each thrust, and he finds himself gritting his teeth again and holding back a shout of... _something_ uncontrollable inside him when Wilson comes. Wilson thrusts once more, twice more, three times and holds himself firm inside House while the rest of his body jerks. Then he relaxes, comes down onto his elbows and lays atop of House like he's within an inch of exhaustion. For what feels like the longest time, neither of them move. Probably because they can't, but House doesn't want Wilson to move. Not yet. Not until he has to. For all he knows, this could be the last connection he ever has with Wilson. He wants to make that connection last in case it ends up erased for good.

At last, Wilson rolls away. House's back is damp with sweat, the insides of his thighs sticky, his ass raw and tired. He stays completely still. Listens to the sound of Wilson's breathing, every move he makes. All the questions that had faded from House's mind start flooding back and he finds himself staring at the wall while he frantically tries to answer each question himself. What does this mean? What doesn't it mean? What's it supposed to mean? What _shouldn't_ it mean? Where does this all go from here?

"How does any of this make your life better?" House finally dares to ask. His voice piercing the silence in the room sounds sharp and startling to him like glass shattering.

He hears Wilson inhale. Exhale. "It doesn't."

"Then why..."

"If you don't question it, neither will I."

House falls silent. He doesn't know where Wilson's answer even leaves him, where it even leaves _them_. He doesn't know if he even has the right to ask. For once, he's not the one calling the shots. Maybe everything will just slot back into place, the way everything used to be. Except House doesn't think it will be as simple as that. Nothing is ever simple with Wilson. Things are now more complicated than they've ever been. Maybe life really is about taking every wrong turn until you're completely lost. Or maybe it's about taking every wrong turn until you find where you're meant to be.

There are a lot of things House wishes he could erase. But Wilson will never be one of them.

He doesn't sleep for the rest of the night. And Wilson doesn't leave.

**end**


End file.
